In 15 Days
by the White Feather
Summary: On his 25th birthday, a mysterious letter is sent to Heero, bearing the words: Today is the first day of your death. Ignoring the threat isn't an option. If he doesn't find the writer's name within 15 days, either he or everyone he cares for will die!


Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing and all its characters, but I do own the terrible plot and script that I will be forcing them to endure and say.

A/N: This is the first story that I will commit to.  I have utterly failed at all my other attempts, and this will be a first.  I have changed by pen name, thank you, from shinigami-girl to the White Feather if anyone has noticed.  I hope you enjoy the first chapter of  *In 15 Days*, even though it sounds like some movie with a terrible epidemic with the zombies and such...er...**Resident Evil**, anyone?!  R&R and up my self-esteem!

*****

In 15 Days  
by: the White Feather

*****

There was a dreary gray sky looming over Houston like there always was this time of the year.  The skies looked like they promised rain, but they never quite seemed to live up to it.  The only upside was the crisp temperature of the air, and the fact that anyone could walk outside without freezing their tails off, or practically melting due to the heat.

Dr. Heero Yuy, PhD sat patiently in his leather armchair as his latest patient spewed forth terrible anger from the couch across from him.  He distraught man raged on about everything, from this troubled childhood to his drunken high school and college years to his pathetically failed marriage and finally to his opinion of society and how it was the cause of all evil.

Dr. Yuy studied this man carefully.  His name was Wufei Chang, but he preferred to be addressed as "Maestro" for purposes beyond Heero's knowledge.  The Chinese man had never quite gotten to why he wanted to be called this.

And so Heero listened, and Mr. Chang continued, complaining about his next door neighbor whom he called a "cranky old hag" and how she was always bickering at him about the condition of the metal numbers hanging from his apartment door.

"...she keeps telling me to polish them, to make them..._shine._"  He added the last word with bitter emphasis.  "Doc, don't even get me started on what she did to me yesterday!"  The raven-haired man stood from his seat on the couch, fuming.  "SHE--"

He heard the bell attached to his office entrance ring.  

Heero interrupted.  "Yes, Mr. Chang.  I won't get you started on it.  Unfortunately, our session is over, and I will have to see you tomorrow."  Practically pushing the Chinese man out the door, Dr. Yuy inwardly sighed and shut the door behind the leaving patient.

For a moment, he returned to his armchair, listening to the angry man's footsteps resounding down the exterior hallway.

The office had three doors: one which led to the vestibule, which he'd reinvented as a tiny waiting room; a second, which led directly out to the apartment building corridor; and a third, which took him inside to the modest kitchen living area, and bedroom of the remainder of the apartment.  His office was a sort of personal island, with portals to these other worlds.  He often regarded it as a nether-space, a bridge between different realities.  He liked that, because he believed the separation of the office from the great outside helped him make his own job somewhat easier.

"Sir, Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I'm closing up for the day." He called over his shoulder as he locked his suitcase.

When he heard no answer, he assumed that it was just Mr. Chang leaving and thought nothing of it.  He shut the door to the therapy room and by habit, was about to wave to his secretary, but he saw no one there.  I'll have to take this out of her paycheck, he thought.  Instead, he saw a small, business sized envelope sitting on the first waiting room chair.

He stepped over to it and picked up the envelope.  His name was typed onto the front.

"Hn," he grunted with curiosity. "How unusual."  Heero hesitated before opening the letter, holding it up to the light, the way he always did whenever he received any mail.  He, at that moment, was trying to guess which one of his patients had left it for him, but it was an act deemed uncharacteristic to any of his current six patients.  They always voiced their complaints directly and frequently.  While irritating, it was still an integral part of the process.

Heero tore open the envelope and removed two sheets of paper filled with type.  He read only the first line.

_Happy 25th birthday, doctor.  Welcome to the first day of your death._

He breathed in sharply.  The stale air that filled the apartment made him dizzy almost instantly. His hand shot out quickly for the wall, steadying himself.

Dr. Heero Yuy was a man in the business of introspection, a man who lived alone, haunted by other peoples memories.

He strode over the small, antique maple desk in the waiting room, a gift five years earlier from his fiancée.  It had been five years since she had passed away, and when he sat down at the desk, it seemed that he could still hear her voice, see her smile.  He took the two sheets of paper and spread them out on the blotter.  

He thought to himself that it had been almost six years since he had been afraid of anything, and what he was afraid of back then was the diagnosis the oncologist gave to his fiancée.  Now, his unfamiliar dry, acid taste on his tongue was as unwelcome as the acceleration of his heart, which he could feel racing in his chest.

Heero took a second or two to try and calm the rapid beating, waiting until he could feel the rate settle down to a slower pace.  He was soon acutely aware of his loneliness at that moment, hating the vulnerability that solitude created within him.

Dr. Yuy hated this drastic change in his daily life.  It was horrible enough that he always had to be referred to as Dr. Yuy, as he much preferred the simple first name he was given: Heero.  He never let anyone know of this, even of the fact that he actually enjoyed being around his all-too carefree frat house buddies back in college.

The title "Doctor" made him sound like a man of necessary routine and order.  He was devoted to a regularity that bordered on religion and certainly touched obsession; by imposing so much reason on his own day-to-day life, he thought it was the only safe way to try to make sense of the turmoil and chaos that his patients brought to him daily.  

Heero was a slight man physically, an inch or two short of six feet, with a lean, muscular build helped by a daily lunchtime course of brisk walking exercise and a steadfast refusal to indulge in the sweets and ice creams that he secretly adored.

He wore glasses, which was slightly unusual for a man his age.  His hair was constantly in an uncombed mop on top of his head.  He no longer smoked, and took only a rare glass of wine on an occasional evening to help him sleep.  He was a man who had grown quite accustomed to his solitude, undaunted by eating dinner in a restaurant alone, or attending a Broadway show or current movie by himself.  He thought the inventory of his mind and body to be in excellent condition.

This sudden stress was a bit too much for the young doctor.  He steadied himself and continued reading, slowly, pausing over each sentence, allowing dread and disquiet to take root deep within him.

_I exist somewhere I your past._

_You ruined my life.  You may not know how, or why,_

_ or even when, but you did. Brought disaster and sadness to_

_my every second.  You ruined my life.  And now I fully intend to ruin yours._

Heero Yuy breathed in hard again.  He lived in a world common with false threats and fake promises, but somehow knew immediately that the words in front of him were far different from those meandering rantings from he was accustomed to hearing daily.

At first, I thought I should simply kill you to settle the score.

Then I realized that at was simply too easy.  You

_are a pathetically facile target, doctor.  You do not lock_

_your doors during the day.  You take the same walk on_

_the same route Monday through Friday.  On weekends, you remain_

_wondrously predictable, right down to the trip out on_

_Sunday morning to pick up the Times, and onion bagel, and _

_a hazelnut coffee, two sugars, no milk, at the trendy_

_coffee bar two blocks to your south._

_Far too easy.  Stalking and killing you wouldn't have_

_Been much of a challenge.  And, given the ease with which _

_this murder could be accomplished, I wasn't certain that_

_it would deliver the necessary satisfaction._

_I've decided I would prefer you to kill yourself._

Heero Yuy shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  He could feel heat rippling up from the words in front of him, like fire catching in a woodstove, caressing his forehead and cheeks.  His lips were dry, and he fruitlessly ran his tongue over them.

Kill yourself, doctor.

_Jump from a bridge.  Blow your brains out with a hand gun._

_Step in from of a midtown bus.  Leap in front of a subway train._

_Turn on the gas stove and blow out the pilot light._

_Find a convenient beam and hang yourself.  The method you choose_

_is entirely up to you._

_But it is your best chance._

_Your suicide will be for more appropriate, given the _

_Precise circumstances of our relationship.  And certainly _

a far more satisfying method for you to pay off your debt to me.

_So, here is the game we are going to play: You have exactly_

_fifteen days, starting tomorrow morning at six A.M., to discover who_

_I am.  If you succeed, you must purchase one of those tiny_

_one-column ads that run along the bottom of the daily _New York 

Times_ front page, and print my name there.  That's all: Just print_

_my name._

_If you do not, then...well, this is the fun part.  You will_

_take note that the second sheet of this letter contains the names_

_of fifty-two if your relatives.  They range in age from a newborn,_

_barely six months old, the child of your great-grand-niece, to your cousin_

_the Wall Street investor, and capitalist extraordinaire, who is _

_as dried-up and dull as you.  If you are unable to purchase the ad_

_as described, then you have this choice: Kill yourself immediately or I _

_will destroy one of these innocent people.  
  
_

_Destroy._

_What an intriguing word.  It could mean financial ruin.  It could mean _

_social wreckage.  It could mean psychological rape.  _

_It could also mean murder.  That's for you to wonder about.  It could _

_be someone young, or someone old.  Male or female.  Rich or poor.  _

_All I promise is that it will be the sort of event that they—or their loved_

_ones—will never recover from, no matter how many years they might_

_spend in psychoanalysis.  _

_And whatever it is, you will live every remaining second of every _

_minute you have left on this earth with the knowledge that you alone _

_caused it._

Unless, or course, you take the more honorable approach and kill yourself

first, saving whichever target I have selected from their fate.  

There's your choice: my name or your obituary.  In the same paper, or course.

As proof of the length of my reach, and the extent of my planning, I have 

this day contacted one of the names on the list with a most modest little 

message.  I would urge you to spend the remainder of the evening 

ferreting out who was touched, and how.  Then you can begin on the true 

task before you with out delay in the morning.

_I do not, of course, truly expect you to be able to guess my identity.  _

_So, to demonstrate that I am a sporting type, I've decided that _

_from time to time over the next fifteen days I will provide you with _

_a clue of two.  Just to make things more interesting, although a clever,_

_intuitive sort, such as yourself, should assume that this entire letter is_

_filled with clues.  Never the less, here is a preview, and it comes for free._

_            In the past, life was fun and wild,_

_            Mother, father, and young child_

_            But all the good times went astray,_

_            When my father sailed away._

_Poetry is not my strong suit._

_Hatred is._

_You may ask three questions.  Yes or No answers, please._

_Use the same method, the front-page ads in the New York Times._

_I will reply in my own style within twenty-four hours._

_Good luck.  You might also try to find time now to make your funeral_

_arrangements.  Cremation is probably preferable to an elaborate_

_burial service.  I know how much you dislike churches.  I don't think_

_it would be a smart idea to contact the police.  They would probably _

_mock you, which I suspect your conceit would have difficulty _

_handling.  And it would likely enrage me more, and, right now, you_

_must be a little uncertain as to how unstable I actually am. I _

_might respond erratically in any number or quite evil ways.  _

_But of one thing of which you can be absolutely certain: _

_My anger is knows no limits._

The letter was signed in all-capital letters:

RUMPLESTILTSKIN

Heero Yuy sat back hard in his chair, as if the rage emanating from the words on the page in front of him had been able to strike him in the face like a fist.  He pushed himself to his feet, walked over to the window and cracked it open, allowing the city sounds to burst into the quite of the small room.

He breathed in, looking for something in the air to gibe him a sense of relief from the heat that had overcome him.  He could hear the high-pitched caterwaul of police sirens a few blocks away, and the steady cacophony of car horns that is like white noise in Houston.  He took one or two deep breaths of the balmy air, and pulled the window closed, shutting away all outside sounds of the urban world.

He turned back to the letter.

I am in trouble, he thought.  But how much, he was initially unsure.

****

To Be Continued

****


End file.
